Travelling the Way of St. James, I happened upon the quiet town of Belorado, in the province of Burgos. Many would say "large village" is more accurate a term, at least those pilgrims who would not venture outside its modern self, but would stay either in the comfort of their pilgrim "albergue", or limit themselves to visiting the modest central plaza nearby. They would not notice the past, espying them from the hills...
It had been a lucky chance that Elys and I decided, at the end of our long walk, to stay in the first place we found - a parish hostel in the church of Santa María, facing a small channel and almost succeeding in hiding the cliffs and caves set within the hill behind the edifice. Planted upon this hill, almost hidden from sight, sat a small rocky formation that I later found out to have been a castle. This "castle" seemed, from the distance, to be as uncivilized as the nearby caves, and made me wonder if the cliffs themselves had not belonged, at another time, to a refuge or even part of a citadel, perhaps now buried, composing its own grave mound.
Not long after hearing the word "castillo" - mentioned by the albergue's "hospitalera" - I already was striding up the grassy hill leading to the castle ruins. Although Elys had meant to accompany me until the end, when the drizzle turned to torrent she had to stop, since her garb was not well suited for a climb under the weather. "Turn back if you feel in danger" she said, "I will, my Love" I said, turning to her.
Yet slowly, as I climbed the slippery slope, as my clothes and shoes slowly soaked, and as I grew more determined to reach the castle - mockingly invisible from the slope - I started feeling that I could not turn back. Strangely, the wind and rain, which slowly gained vigour as they flew into my face, somehow pulled me forward. Even that brute gust of wind, which menaced to throw me off the path as it caught me unawares spying the ruins for the first time since I set off towards them, even that almost blazing downpour, they pulled my spirit in while thrusting my body away, perhaps in a vain attempt to separate them. These short episodes of inclement rage repeated many times, always when I found myself struggling to secure a foothold on the muddy path, always when the slope was steep, always when the castle grazed my mind.
I finally reached the small plateau where the small ruin stood. How to describe it without disappointing the reader? It is impossible to capture in words or photograph the actual spirit of the thing, which is not kin with its outer aspect. The ruin, which did not surpass a small house in size and rather seemed a natural rock untouched by chisel, bloated out of the hill, the cave at its foundation swollen like a bubble. It is to this cave that the zephyr called me, to its low, wide entrance, giving passage to a rough interior that would not have admitted me but on my hands and knees. It looked not as abandoned as I expected - the rests of wood and sharp rock within, and the rests of what could have been burnt or aged fabric suggested it had been visited, although I suspected no human being would find lasting comfort within the cavern. I stood at the threshold, with the wind pushing me within, but did not enter. How could I know whether that unnatural gust, which seemed to gain strength as I approached the castle, would let me out once I had entered its domain? As I stepped back, another gust of wind hit me, as in a last desperate attempt to bend my will, but another step back curbed it.
But I had not reached my destination, not yet. This thought appeared to have conjured a tempting path going up and round the ruin, to the rough facade towering above. I fell into its sin. As I stepped onto it, the squall renewed itself, alluring me on and forcing me to keep vigil on my steps.
When I looked up, I saw the facade from the other side, and for the first time I witnessed something distinctly human in it. It was not the fact that its arches and windows, unseen from the other side, seemed carved by iron rather than the elements. It was something entirely unexpected: I saw two 'faces' in the wall of the facade. The eyes of the rightmost, masculine face had large arches as its eyes topped by two short, grassy brows, and hiding the remaining features below under a dense beard twisted from various plants, grasses and mosses. The leftmost one, more feminine, had two small windows for eyes, each set within the curved brows of an arch, under which little grass could be seen, and where protrusions and cavities suggested the remaining features. Between the two, a bush of white flowers stood, perhaps as a last marker of the death and life of these once lords, once lovers, perhaps once slaves to one another. Why did their lives, which seemed turbulent enough to leave a mark in stone, result in small, clean, white blooms? While the windowless blind eyes of the stone lord could show me nothing, I thought that the eyes of his mistress could perhaps tell me something - if I could climb the wall and reach those high windows, perhaps I could see another world through them.
I checked myself. Those windows were not meant for human eyes.
I twisted myself round at last, finally heeding Elys' voice within me - "Turn back..." I ran down the path to the front of the castle, for the first time feeling how soaked my shoes had become, but as I stepped down onto the plateau I realised I could not find the path by which I had climbed onto it. Instead, the only path in sight veered off elsewhere, in the direction of the caved cliffs. Maybe the storm, with its rising vigour, had shifted the paths on the hill; if I had satisfied my wish to glance within the windows of that stone mistress, I would perhaps have found all paths gone, and myself alone on a dancing green island, eventually to be transmuted into one of its flower bushes...
I hurried down the path, and ignored the rain on my body, which had already passed through my raincoat as though through paper. It did not matter, not as long I could find a path - down, down, down... But the path mocked me, moved this way and than, first down, then up, yet higher than I had been before. Thankfully, I was not derided for long, and soon glimpsed the ruins of some houses down the hill, which I quickly passed only to realise that I was on the other side of the town. As I walked - or rather swam within my shoes - down the street to the parish hostel, all that existed was the cold wetness of that strange storm, reminding me that I had returned to reality.
It had been a lucky chance that Elys and I decided, at the end of our long walk, to stay in the first place we found - a parish hostel in the church of Santa María, facing a small channel and almost succeeding in hiding the cliffs and caves set within the hill behind the edifice. Planted upon this hill, almost hidden from sight, sat a small rocky formation that I later found out to have been a castle. This "castle" seemed, from the distance, to be as uncivilized as the nearby caves, and made me wonder if the cliffs themselves had not belonged, at another time, to a refuge or even part of a citadel, perhaps now buried, composing its own grave mound.
Not long after hearing the word "castillo" - mentioned by the albergue's "hospitalera" - I already was striding up the grassy hill leading to the castle ruins. Although Elys had meant to accompany me until the end, when the drizzle turned to torrent she had to stop, since her garb was not well suited for a climb under the weather. "Turn back if you feel in danger" she said, "I will, my Love" I said, turning to her.
Yet slowly, as I climbed the slippery slope, as my clothes and shoes slowly soaked, and as I grew more determined to reach the castle - mockingly invisible from the slope - I started feeling that I could not turn back. Strangely, the wind and rain, which slowly gained vigour as they flew into my face, somehow pulled me forward. Even that brute gust of wind, which menaced to throw me off the path as it caught me unawares spying the ruins for the first time since I set off towards them, even that almost blazing downpour, they pulled my spirit in while thrusting my body away, perhaps in a vain attempt to separate them. These short episodes of inclement rage repeated many times, always when I found myself struggling to secure a foothold on the muddy path, always when the slope was steep, always when the castle grazed my mind.
I finally reached the small plateau where the small ruin stood. How to describe it without disappointing the reader? It is impossible to capture in words or photograph the actual spirit of the thing, which is not kin with its outer aspect. The ruin, which did not surpass a small house in size and rather seemed a natural rock untouched by chisel, bloated out of the hill, the cave at its foundation swollen like a bubble. It is to this cave that the zephyr called me, to its low, wide entrance, giving passage to a rough interior that would not have admitted me but on my hands and knees. It looked not as abandoned as I expected - the rests of wood and sharp rock within, and the rests of what could have been burnt or aged fabric suggested it had been visited, although I suspected no human being would find lasting comfort within the cavern. I stood at the threshold, with the wind pushing me within, but did not enter. How could I know whether that unnatural gust, which seemed to gain strength as I approached the castle, would let me out once I had entered its domain? As I stepped back, another gust of wind hit me, as in a last desperate attempt to bend my will, but another step back curbed it.
But I had not reached my destination, not yet. This thought appeared to have conjured a tempting path going up and round the ruin, to the rough facade towering above. I fell into its sin. As I stepped onto it, the squall renewed itself, alluring me on and forcing me to keep vigil on my steps.
When I looked up, I saw the facade from the other side, and for the first time I witnessed something distinctly human in it. It was not the fact that its arches and windows, unseen from the other side, seemed carved by iron rather than the elements. It was something entirely unexpected: I saw two 'faces' in the wall of the facade. The eyes of the rightmost, masculine face had large arches as its eyes topped by two short, grassy brows, and hiding the remaining features below under a dense beard twisted from various plants, grasses and mosses. The leftmost one, more feminine, had two small windows for eyes, each set within the curved brows of an arch, under which little grass could be seen, and where protrusions and cavities suggested the remaining features. Between the two, a bush of white flowers stood, perhaps as a last marker of the death and life of these once lords, once lovers, perhaps once slaves to one another. Why did their lives, which seemed turbulent enough to leave a mark in stone, result in small, clean, white blooms? While the windowless blind eyes of the stone lord could show me nothing, I thought that the eyes of his mistress could perhaps tell me something - if I could climb the wall and reach those high windows, perhaps I could see another world through them.
I checked myself. Those windows were not meant for human eyes.
I twisted myself round at last, finally heeding Elys' voice within me - "Turn back..." I ran down the path to the front of the castle, for the first time feeling how soaked my shoes had become, but as I stepped down onto the plateau I realised I could not find the path by which I had climbed onto it. Instead, the only path in sight veered off elsewhere, in the direction of the caved cliffs. Maybe the storm, with its rising vigour, had shifted the paths on the hill; if I had satisfied my wish to glance within the windows of that stone mistress, I would perhaps have found all paths gone, and myself alone on a dancing green island, eventually to be transmuted into one of its flower bushes...
I hurried down the path, and ignored the rain on my body, which had already passed through my raincoat as though through paper. It did not matter, not as long I could find a path - down, down, down... But the path mocked me, moved this way and than, first down, then up, yet higher than I had been before. Thankfully, I was not derided for long, and soon glimpsed the ruins of some houses down the hill, which I quickly passed only to realise that I was on the other side of the town. As I walked - or rather swam within my shoes - down the street to the parish hostel, all that existed was the cold wetness of that strange storm, reminding me that I had returned to reality.
Only now have I felt those ramparts graze my cheeks, only by the texture here writ. And the view is magnificent now! Do you not know in your heart what abides on the other side of those windows? What ancient sexuality does the stone mistress hold? What ancient signs passed between the lovers? Are these not the signs of all love for all time, the signs of which may petrify even the most fluid of beings? It may have been Elys' fear of that very thing that touched you and drew you away - you, deft and nomadic.
ReplyDelete